white-flaggin'.

I quit. I give up. Do you hear me, God? Do you read this blog? I quit.

Maybe you’re not meant to be known. Christ was clearly meant to be known. He came in time and place. But time passes, and fact turns to myth. You can’t love myth.

Maybe the foolishness is not so much in believing in the fantastical—who are we to say what is impossible?—but in believing that we can know. In carving out our corner of truth, and setting up a soapbox in it, and staking a claim on certainty.

In psychology, we name what we don’t understand, and then the name itself becomes a sort of understanding. So when you go to your doctor, he can give you one of hundreds of diagnoses that prescribe little hope of effective treatment, but at least you know what you are. Right?

Do we do the same with You? We name You, sometimes forgetting that name means little. We scour Your Word, naming things as we go—laws, and sins, and love—attempting to make the world more simple, more certain. Attempting to secure our salvation in a sinner’s prayer.

But there’s nothing simple or certain about Your world. It’s a messy place. That is part of its wild and terrible beauty.

I give up. I don’t want to name things any longer. Well, except for one thing. Love. I’ll keep love.

Whatever kind of God You are, I think You understand.